Thursday, August 29, 2013

Friendship Does Not Equal Hugging




            There are three types of best friends. Truthfully, there are more, but only three matter here. These types are the Underappreciated, the Loyalist, and the Secret Keeper. The BBC show, Merlin provides good examples for these types of best friends.
            Merlin, the title character, is the best description of the Underappreciated. He is a sorcerer in a place where magic is outlawed. So does he leave town so he can be himself and, more importantly, alive? No. He becomes Prince Arthur's servant and saves Arthur's life…often. Arthur doesn't know this, so he doesn't thank his best friend, but being Arthur, he probably wouldn't thank Merlin even if he did know.
            Despite this, Arthur is a good friend. He is the Loyalist. He may be the prince of Camelot, but King Uther is a very biased man. Arthur believes Merlin when he says the kingdom is in danger and stands by his servant, which puts him at odds with the King more often than not. However, Arthur is loyal to a fault.
            Merlin's mentor, Gaius, is also loyal, but he is better known as the Secret Keeper. Gaius is the only one in Camelot who knows that Merlin can do magic and Gaius will do anything to keep Merlin's secret safe, even be burned at the stake as a sorcerer.
            Knowing the different types of best friends can keep the peace between them and maybe even save a life…more than once.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Merlin in the Deep



[And now for something completely different. Adele's Rolling in the Deep made to fit BBC's Merlin. If you haven't watched as far as season 3, or are completely and utterly unfamiliar with the Arthurian Legends, do not read further. Some spoilers of sorts. Also, thanks to CCP for the first verse and most of the chorus, as well as for getting the idea in my head. Everyone else, enjoy the short version of 'Merlin in the Deep.' (All rights reserved to everyone who has rights here. Credit where credit's due.) -E. Farris]



There’s a traitor here in Camelot.
I know who she is and she is really hot.
Finally I can see her crystal clear.
But I cannot sell her out; she’s gotta get out of here.

Can’t you see how cruel she is to you?
But she’ll underestimate the things I can do
For my destiny and Arthur my friend.
Though I might have liked her once, all that is at an end.

That time I poisoned her reminds me of us.
It keeps me thinking that we could have had it all.
But she turned evil and threw me in the dust.
I can’t help feeling…

We could’ve had it all!
But you had to turn evil!
Stop trying to kill Arthur!
Or I’ll have to destroy you.

I am Emyris, that’s what the druids say.
You don’t know that’s me but you know he’ll make you pay.
You’ll dream of me seeing only an old man.
I’m prophesized to bring you down; I’ll do the best I can.

That time I poisoned you reminds me of us.
It keeps me thinking that we almost had it all.
But you turned evil and threw me in the dust.
I can’t help feeling…

 We could’ve had it all!
But you had to turn evil!
Stop trying to kill Arthur!
Or I’ll have to destroy you.

We could’ve had it all!
But you had to turn evil!
Stop trying to kill Arthur!
Or I’ll have to destroy you.

(Now you’re gonna wish you’d, never had met me.)
We could have had it all.
(You are gonna fall. And you can see it all.)
We could have had it all.
It all, it all, it all, it all.

We could’ve had it all!
If you’d not turned evil!
Stop trying to kill Arthur!
Or I’ll have to
I’ll have to
I’ll have to
I’ll have to destroy you.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

A Very Sleeeepy Kitty

A photograph today that I took. No writing. I'm mixing things up. :) This is my cat and he was sleeping/not allowing me to get any thing done because he kept sleeping on everything I was trying to clean up. Until he was given this pillow. Then, like a proper royal, he lounged on his throne. Check out those paws!!

Monday, August 26, 2013

Fate in Thirty-Nine Lines

[I do apologize. Due to unforeseen circumstances, The Order is going to be postponed either a day or a week. We'll just have to see. Probably you'll have to wait a week. Sorry about that. Also daily postings may drop to every few days for a while or permanently. We'll see about that too. So meanwhile, I do have a post today to make up for the lack of The Order. It's another one of those twenty line things like the water passage. Have a great Monday all and I'll see you sometime! -E. Farris]





Fate.
So unsure.
Like a child.
Reaching for the unknown.
Grasping hold of misty figures.
Like it can illuminate the dark.
But what can fate do about darkness?
What does fate really know about losing yourself?
It pretends to be the truth of all things.
It pretends that it carries your destiny in its hands. (10)
But fate knows so little about destiny for all its claims.
It’s nothing more than a blind old man crawling in the sun.
He may feel the heat on his face but he’ll never see it.
Sunlight is nothing more than quietly useless knowledge of a truth he can’t experience.
The presence or lack of the sun makes no difference to his night and day. (15)
Similarly, fate knows nothing about reality or those who inhabit that place it claims to control.
It is filled with quietly useless knowledge about life and destiny, but is lost in controlling it.
It merely exists alongside it, hoping for a chance to fully realize its own potential for new discoveries.
Who’d have ever guessed that fate is as much a slave of our whims as we are of its?
The image of the sure, strong river driving its course of destiny through our lifetimes is as false as lies. (20)
But perhaps we believe it because it is hard to believe that fate is as lost as we are.
And it is the mindless, blind plowing through fortunes, good and bad, that gives us illusions of security.
We give fate our futures, blaming it for where we stray, reluctantly praising it for our gains.
And fate in turn accepts this role as guardian of futures because there it has purpose.
The delusion we both cast is tenuous as strings of light, broken by passing shadows. (15)
And it is indeed broken, over and over again by impatient doubt and carelessness.
Yet no matter how it is broken, it is always once again reinstated.
What dreams and desires spark this base illusion we cast over ourselves?
Or is it some misunderstanding of the role that fate plays?
Do we misunderstand fate or does fate misunderstand us? (10)
Are we those crawling blind in the sun?
The way of the world is hidden.
Fate follows its lonely, obfuscated path.
It watches us with longing.
We follow our paths.
Unaware of disconnection.
Blindly stumbling.
Forever.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

A Witch in the Woods



Kitch stopped, listening intently. Overhead, the quarter moon glittered through the heavy cloud cover. The beast stalking her was still.
She dropped to one knee and touched a tree root, holding it, feeling it, until she had bonded with it. She mentally followed its root network, knowing everything that touched it as if it was touching her, as if the roots were part of her own body. 
It wasn't on the ground. She searched the branches of the tree. Nothing. It was as if the beast had never existed. She frowned and reached for another tree's root then froze. Hot air blew across the back of her neck. Without hesitation she rolled forward, coming up in a crouch and whirling around.
The beast was there, hovering three feet in the air, pupil-less eyes staring at her. It lightly stretched a clawed foot downward and then landed on the ground as easily as stepping down from a stair. Its lips curled back revealing yellowed fangs to join the tusks she had already noticed. It flexed its paws and started toward her. She threw a handful of mineral rich dirt at it. The dirt connected with the beast's shoulder and it stopped, stunned, as it wasn't dirt that hit but a small, rough, knife blade.
She scowled when she saw she had missed and then ran, using the distraction wisely. Seeing her moving, the beast charged. She threw a hand behind her and the tree roots rose up, causing the beast to leap over them, until it decided against leaping and settled on running in the air. That's when her tree smacked the beast in the face by its own volition.
Kitch skid to a stop, surprised. The beast roared then screamed, shuddering. Kitch crouched down, scooping up two handfuls of dirt. There would be no missing this time. She waited. The beast was trembling as it came forward. Then it leaped, closing the distance between it and her in the space of a few heartbeats. She threw the knives, hearing three soft tumps of connection and then the beast was on top of her.
Dead.
Its chin was on Kitch's cheek, oozing drool and blood. She cringed and started shoving the enormous creature off her. Suddenly she heard the sound of an arrow being released and it burying its head its target. Don't be shooting me, she thought, urgently. I don't need anyone else trying to kill me.
She squirmed partway out from under the dead beast and heard a quiet grunt of understanding. A moment later, a dark figured man was pulling the creature off of her. She got to her feet and stared at the man.
He wore a long dark coat with numerous, large pockets. All his clothing seemed to be black or some other very dark color. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the moon. His boots were sturdy, meant for hard work, and he had gloves tucked in his belt. A hat sat on his head at a casual angle, casting shadows over his face and nearly shoulder-length dark hair.
He heaved the beast upward and she noted the crossbow bolts buried in its forehead and back and also noted, with some satisfaction, that her two knives were stuck neatly through its heart, right where she’d meant them to go.
“Not sure who killed this,” the man grunted.
“I did,” Kitch said.
“Oh?” he asked, skeptically.
“I was closer,” she said.
“You were under it,” he said agreeably.
“Thank you by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“For almost shooting me,” she said.
He paused. “Didn’t know you were actual,” he said finally.
“You didn't know I was actual? What does that even mean? You didn’t know I was real? How did you manage that?”
“I'm used to apparitions.”
“Naturally,” Kitch said, affably. “Well, I would've assumed that you were an apparition as well.”
Even with his face obscured by shadows she could see him scowl. “I didn't have to save you,” he said.
Kitch leaned forward in complete seriousness. “Are you in the habit of saving apparitions?”
His mouth twisted in a grimace and he tipped his hat.
“I'll be going,” he said, walking past her.
Kitch sighed, faintly disappointed. “What is it?”
He stopped and turned around. “Hmm?”
“What is this?” she asked, nudging the dead thing at her feet. “The thing that decided to stalk me and try to kill me.”
“A borwan.”
“Ah. Yes, I see now. A borwan. What a self-explanatory name,” she said blithely.
“Part boar, part wolf…and part man.”
“Which part?” she asked. The thing looked completely animal, feral and deadly.
The man moved over to the borwan and knelt by it. He pushed his fingers through the fur in its chest, and then, to Kitch's astonishment, into its chest. His hand disappeared and then he pulled it back out, clutching a blood-covered, hard, blue-gray rock.
“This part,” he answered.
“What is that?”
He shook his head. “Not sure. Witch’s witchiness, maybe. Borwan are witches.”
“Hmm. Witchiness.”
“Don’t know the technical name,” he said crossly.
“And so you use witchiness?”
“Clearly.”
“In educated circles it is called witchcraft,” she said sweetly.
He paused, taking in her sentence with all its implications. “Mm. They never told me that.”
Kitch smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure there were a lot of things you weren’t told.”
“I know,” he said darkly.
“What are you going to do with that?” Kitch asked, nodding at the blue stone.
He shrugged, rising to his feet. “We don’t have a use for them. Yet.”
“You keep them?” Kitch asked, surprised.
“We can’t destroy them.”
“Destroying them is the easy part. How do you manage to keep them not be Consumed?”
Easy?” he echoed incredulously. “Have some experience with witches?”
“Who hasn't?”
“Most don’t know how to destroy them.”
“That's only because they don't take the time to find out.”
“Only a witch would know how.”
“Or a WitchHunter. Like you.”
His expression hardened.
“You are, aren’t you?” she pressed.
He hesitated, just a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“And a Hunter. Not a huntsman,” Kitch clarified. She had to be absolutely certain.
Another pause. “Yes.”
Kitch sighed and leaned against a tree. “Naturally.”
He stared at her intently a moment before speaking softly. “Wyfreda.”
“What?” she asked.
“Witch-friend.”
“I…” she trailed off, not sure of what to say. She could hardly deny the claim, but neither could she admit it. That was just as dangerous.
He tipped his hat. “I'll leave you then.”
She watched him leave then shouted after him. “Don't believe that witches can be good?”
He stopped but didn’t turn. “It's not my job to believe either way.”
“That's no answer.”
“It's mine.” And then he vanished into the dark.
Kitch frowned thoughtfully, then glanced at the corpse lying next to her. “Time to move on. This dear friend will be attracting all sorts of things, not to mention what I'll be attracting.”
She swiftly bonded with the tree the creature was lying near and then walked away as the tree roots quietly dragged the body underground.